


Angel Choirs and Magic

by LadyDrace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, First Time, Knotting, M/M, Mating Rituals, Mating runs, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omega Verse, POV Derek Hale, Rimming, Scent Marking, Top Derek Hale, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: Derek has been very, very patient, and has shown frankly incredible self-control in the face of brutal teasing and flirting for two months. But now it's time for the mating run, and he's about to get his reward.Except for how maybe it's actually Stiles getting a treat. Win/win.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KattsEyeDemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KattsEyeDemon/gifts).



> This was written for [Katt](http://crazykattlady.tumblr.com/) as a thank you for her super generous contribution. <3 Thank you so much!
> 
> Unbetaed, but thoroughly edited.

It's the day of the mating run, and Derek feels like he's literally going to explode. It's been the most frustrating two months of his life, and today he's finally going to have his reward. _Finally_.

 

The omegas enter the field in a slow procession, and Derek's breath catches when he sees Stiles. Until this moment it hasn't actually felt real. The past few months feel almost like a strangely stressful dream.

 

Derek has always scoffed a little at the mating runs. These are modern times, and no one needs the runs anymore. People date now, get engaged, married, have kids, the whole shebang with no need for a hormone-fueled romp in the woods to check combatability or indulge superstitions about fertility and blessed unions. So they're mostly for show. Or for romantics. Or the very few traditionalists left. Derek had never thought he'd be in one. He doesn't see the point.

 

But Stiles apparently does. Despite ranting at length about how pointless they are, he somehow still insisted that they would not consummate their new relationship until the next run. Derek is pretty sure it's just a convenient tool to further torture him, after over two months of playful push and pull, leaving them both aching and frustrated, but if it's what Stiles wants, then Derek is doing it.

 

So here they are, in a chilly field on a spring morning, mostly naked among fifty or so other people, goosepimpling in the chill air, and listening to the run coordinator reading the traditional pre-run speech and listing the rules. There aren't that many. Alphas may only chase the omega they've marked. If the chase fails or the scent is lost, the alpha will return and wait for their omega to return as well, and – time permitting – they may be allowed to begin again, or make another attempt at the next run. Any omega not caught may choose to return, but it's recommended to make the chase challenging, so not a lot of them do.

 

The omegas take up position in front of their alphas, a respectable distance apart, designated by the chalk line in the grass that the alphas may not cross until the appropriate signal. Derek flexes his hands, just barely keeping himself from reaching across the line. Stiles had declared that they would not touch at all in the entire week leading up to the run, and it's almost like a physical ache how much Derek needs to feel him. But the coordinator hasn't called the marking yet. Every second waiting for permission feels like a year, and Stiles smiles and winks at him, shameless and smug. But Derek can _smell_ him. Can smell how slick and eager he is already, the thin, traditional mating garment flowing around his bare legs, wafting his scent towards Derek with every helpful breeze. It's gratifying to know that Derek isn't the only one feeling the hunger.

 

But finally the bell dings, and the alphas are allowed to mark their chosen omegas. It's meant to be kept chaste, but more than a few couples cheat and go below the belt. Derek tries his best to keep to decorum, desperate to avoid Stiles torturing him further, so he just rubs his hands over Stiles' neck and through his hair, aching to pull him in close. But Stiles is _evil_ , and without even blinking an eye he reaches down to rub his hands against Derek's junk. He's been half hard pretty much since sunrise, and Stiles' hands are almost too intense to handle. Derek groans and clutches at Stiles' shoulders as he makes a point of rubbing his palms over every inch of Derek's groin, mixing their scents and making himself _reek_ of Derek. It's _agony_ , but also glorious, and Derek's eyes go half-lidded from the pleasure. The only thing keeping him from throwing Stiles over his shoulder and carrying him off like a goddamn caveman, as a big _fuck you_ to the whole idea of mating runs, is the knowledge that if he pisses off Stiles he won't be allowed to have _more_.

 

The bell rings again, and the couples all part, some with more reluctance than others, and then the omegas move to the starting point. Everone wears the same garment during runs, a light, flimsy thing that looks mostly like a tank top merged with a summer dress, just long enough to cover everything and keep things decent, but no more than that. In the old days the rules stated you had to be barefoot as well, but these days shoes are allowed. Technically, underwear is allowed too, but there's really no point, since most participants return naked, or at least with their garments torn. Once the run reaches its apex, there's usually not enough presence of mind left over to care about minor things like clothes.

 

Derek is pleased to note that he's not the only one with a visible predicament going on, alphas and omegas alike squirming or fidgeting, squeezing legs together or strategically arranging fabrics in a vain attempt at looking just a little more decent. It's pretty much a lost cause, and everyone in the field is drowning in pheromones.

 

It actually helps Derek a little getting over the embarrassment he's felt from how much he's jerked off in the past week. Hell, he's knotted his own hand at least once a day, and he hasn't knotted at all without a partner present since his early teens. It feels vaguely like he's losing his mind.

 

All Derek can _smell_ , though, is Stiles. Even from several feet away he can almost _taste_ the sweet, sweet slick of him, the smell so intense that it's bound to start dripping soon. Derek's mouth literally waters from the thought, and he shifts on his feet in impatience.

 

He jumps in surprise when the first claxon sounds and the omegas take off in a flurry of movement. Some of them race away, obviously eager to make their alphas work for it, while other adopt a blantantly inviting saunter, making it clear they won't make it far beyond the tree line before the alphas set off. Stiles is sort of in-between, jogging along at a decent pace, casting one last glance back at Derek before disappearing into the trees. A part of Derek feels weirdly proud. Obviously his mate intends to make it a good chase, and isn't about to tire himself out early on with a sprint. This is gonna be a marathon, and all of Derek's instincts are roaring at him to go, go, _go_.

 

But the alpha claxon hasn't sounded yet, and the minutes crawl by slow as molasses, the heavy scents of the omegas growing fainter as they move further away, but Derek still has his trail. The mixed scent of Stiles and himself is still ripe in his nose, yanking at him as clearly as if it was a path of neon lights pointing the way.

 

By the time the claxon sounds for the second time, all the alphas are pacing and panting, every animalistic instinct usually suppressed by polite society now out in full flourish. There's a lot of posturing going on, and if there weren't overseers nearby there would probably be fights. But Derek ignores all the other alphas, every singly one of his senses trained on the treeline, his body poised and ready. He feels stronger and faster, and just plain better than he ever has. He feels powerful, like he could win any fight or any race. Like no one would _dare_ challenge him. But unlike some of his fellow alphas, Derek has only one goal in sight.

 

The sound of the claxon has barely died out by the time Derek reaches the trees. He can feel the other alphas all around him, and it makes his blood boil. Even though he knows, logically, that none of them are after anything but their chosen omega, something very primal in Derek still feels like they're competition, and he can't help but push himself to the limit right from the beginning. Fairly quickly, though, most of them drop out of his sensory range, already catching their omegas close to the field. But Derek and a handful of others are still on the chase, and they fly past the trees, faster and faster, crossing paths where their omegas' scents lead them and focusing only on the run.

 

They cross a stream and a clearing, and Derek follows Stiles' scent in a circle at least twice before it veers off sharply, and suddenly get stronger. He breaks off from the other alphas, and almost slows down, knowing his competition is no longer near, but then the scent bursts on his senses, fresh and rich, overlaid with sweat and musk, and Derek is helpless to pursue at top speed.

 

When he finally catches a glimpse of white cotton between the trees he forgets everything else, and it's a matter of seconds until he's there, there, _almost there..._

 

Stiles swerves, sudden and shocking, laughing breathlessly as Derek skids into a bush, but then it's all over. Derek finds his footing, and just as Stiles looks back at him Derek pounces, and they land on the forest floor in a tangle of limbs, wheezing and panting.

 

”Fuck,” Stiles laughs, and scrambles around until he can yank away a stick poking him in the back, but then he surrenders, so very sweetly, smiling against Derek's hungry mouth.

 

He feels his victory like goddamn angel choirs all around him, but only as long as it takes for Stiles to open his legs and pull Derek in. At the first touch of their hard cocks, it's a roar of desire in Derek's head, and then nothing in the world matters more than getting inside Stiles, to bury himself in him, to rut and knot and tie them together in a way that – in that moment – feels more true and sure than any wedding vows.

 

Stiles moans as Derek thrusts against him without finesse, too far gone to actually dedicate any attention to method, and it's a glorious, breathless mess. Derek feels almost drunk, his cock stuttering along Stiles' groin at every helpless thrust of their hips as he tastes and smells all the amazing things Stiles gives off. He smells like lust and musk and male. Like omega, like sweetness, like steel and copper. He smells like slick and pre-come and sweat.

 

He smells like sex. Like _mating_.

 

”Fuck, come on,” Stiles urges, and tries to reach down for Derek's cock, but Derek snarls at him and traps his hands over his head. He's not even sure why he'd do that, because Stiles' hands on his cock is really damn high on his list of fantasies these days, but the moment he locks those pale wrists against the forest floor Stiles whines, and the smell of his slick becomes _overwhelming_. Derek _has_ to look, and he holds down Stiles' squirming hip with his other hand as he pulls away.

 

Stiles' legs are wide open, garment rucked up and stained from dirt and sweat and the slick literally _flowing_ from his flushed and swollen hole, so obscenely ready for a knot that Derek damn near pops one right there. But, _God_ , first he needs a taste.

 

The sound Stiles makes when Derek buries his face there echoes through the trees, and Derek hopes they hear it all the way back at the field. He hopes they all hear how good he's making his omega feel. How right their mating is. He has to let go of Stiles to taste him, but it's a fair trade for the sweet explosion of taste, and the metallic feel of the blood-flushed rim on his tongue. Stiles wails, and locks his legs around Derek's neck, keeping him where he is as he licks and sucks and gets slick all over his face.

 

”Oh, _Jesus fuck!_ ” Stiles cries out, and clenches his fists in Derek's hair, pushing one minute and pulling the next, almost squirming away until Derek grabs him by the hips and keeps him still. ”Derek, fuck, please!”

 

It's the sweetest music to Derek's ears, and he could have happily spent hours there, tasting his perfect mate and making him scream, if not for the fact that Derek is one decent breeze away from popping his knot in thin air, and that's utterly unacceptable.

 

”Derek, Derek, fuck, Derek, I need, you gotta, fuck, I can't-” Stiles babbles, and slick gushes out of him, all over Derek's chin, and he mashes his face against it, just for the filthy pleasure of it, before finally giving in to the harsh pull on his hair and looking up.

 

Stiles is _beautiful_. Dirty and mussed and messed up, sure. But he's also flushed on his pale chest and his cheeks, lips bitten red, hair in disarray, eyes glazed and shiny, and mouth open and panting for every breath. God, Derek wants to take him. Ruin him. _Own him_.

 

”Please, Derek, please. Please, _alpha_ , I need you.” It's barely a whisper, but it echoes through Derek's head, a plea or an order, impossible to tell which, but it also doesn't matter, since it's impossible to refuse. He yanks Stiles up for a slick-filthy kiss, and Stiles clings to him for a blissful second before Derek pulls him off by the hair, and manhandles him until he's on his front, scrambling to his knees. Derek's sweat-soaked garment has the misfortune of falling down to his cock, and he rips the fabric apart with a snarl, livid at the mere thought of anything coming between them.

 

”Alpha, alpha, _alpha_ ,” Stiles whines against the dirt, and spreads his knees wide as he cants his hips up, putting himself on display in the most primal way known to man. Presenting for his alpha.

 

There's no way in hell Derek is about to refuse that kind of invitation, and he doesn't hesitate to move in close and shove his cock inside in one rough thrust, bottoming out easy as breathing, Stiles' greedy hole clutching at his cock like _he's_ the hungry one. Derek digs his hands into Stiles' hips and barely even pulls out before slamming back into him, slick running so freely and plentiful it spatters out around his cock, and dribbles down the back of Stiles' thighs.

 

The sounds as they ram together are lewd and amazing, all grunting, panting and smacking of naked flesh, and Derek feels more like animal than man as he engages in his second chase of the day, working frantically towards that perfect coupling. And it will be perfect, he knows it will, his knot already making his gut feel tight and his spine tingly as he pulls Stiles towards him faster and faster.

 

”Yes, yes, yes, yes, fuck, yes, give it to me, _yes!_ ” Stiles cries, sobbing and whining and begging, and one more thrust, two, three and Derek is there, pushing in as deep as he can as the skin on his cock pinches and stings with the first swell of his knot, followed immediately by the euphoric bliss of coming, stronger and harder than he ever has before.

 

It's not the first time he knots someone, not even close. But it's definitely the first time it's felt like this, and the first thing that pops into his head once the tie is secure, and the fog of the knot starts to fade, is that maybe these mating runs aren't so overrated after all. Stiles is wheezing and scrabbling frantically at the ground, obviously still riding the wave, and Derek reaches around to offer a helping hand, milking him dry until he starts hissing from the sensitivity.

 

He almost collapses onto the ground, but Derek manages to catch him in time, and gently rolls them both over onto their sides. Stiles is panting and whining every so often, still caught in the knotting frenzy, and that's as it should be. Omegas should always float twice as high, it's only proper. It means that Derek did well, and he feels stupidly proud as he locks his arms around Stiles, ready to protect his mate for as long as they're locked together.

 

Maybe five minutes later Stiles' eyes finally flutter open, and he takes his first proper breath since the start of the run.

 

”Holy fucking shit,” he sighs, and starts laughing, making Derek grunt from the sudden clenching around his knot. ”Holy shit, that was... that was like a million times more awesome than I expected.”

 

”Yeah. Me too,” Derek says, and hugs Stiles closer, mouthing gently at his shoulder. ”But please don't torture me like that again.”

 

”Yeah, don't worry, you're good,” Stiles says, patting Derek's hand. ”Just wanted to make sure you were in it for the long haul.”

 

”Stiles, we've known each other for two months, how can you possibly know-”

 

”Shhh, don't question the magic of mating runs.”

 

Derek snorts. ”Magic. Right. This from the guy who spent like an hour ranting about archaic practices and questionable consent. Ten bucks says you only wanted to do this to fulfill some teenage sex fantasy.”

 

Stiles tenses against him, and Derek blinks. ”What, really?”

 

”Ugh, please don't mock-”

 

”Hey,” Derek says softly. ”You're talking to the guy who literally heard angels singing a few minutes ago. If I did try and mock you I wouldn't have a leg to stand on.”

 

”... angels? Really?” Stiles snorts, and Derek gives the knot a shove just to shut him up. ”Fuck, okay, okay, point taken. Knot now, talk later,” he says, and then giggles stupidly at his pun.

 

”God, how am I mated to you,” Derek groans, and Stiles turns his head for a kiss.

 

”I told you. The magic of mating runs.”

 

Derek resists the temptation to say something incredibly sappy about how _Stiles_ is magic, but he decides to save it for a special occasion. Maybe their wedding.

 

Or maybe he'll sign them up for another run.

 

End.

 

 


End file.
